The Dramatist; or Stop Him Who Can! A Comedy, in Five Acts

Excerpt

ACT THE FIRST.

SCENE I.

The Grove.—Lady Waitfor't's House.

Enter Marianne, and Letty, from the House.

Mari. But I tell you I will come out—I didn't come to Bath to be confined, nor I won't—I hate all their company, but sweet Miss Courtney's.

Letty. I declare, Miss Marianne, you grow worse and worse every day, your country manners will be the ruin of you.

Mari. Don't you talk about that, Letty—It was a shame to bring me up in the country—if I had been properly taken care of, I might have done great things—I might have married the poet I danced with at the ball—But it's all over now.—I shall never get a husband, and, what's worse, my aunt did it on purpose.—She ruined me, Letty, that nobody else might.

Letty. How you talk!—I hope Miss Courtney hasn't taught you all this?

Mari. No,—she's a dear creature,—she has taught me many things; but nothing improper, I'm sure.

Letty. Pray, has she taught you why she never plays any tune but the one we heard just now?

Mari. Yes—and if you'll keep it a secret, I'll tell you, Letty; Mr Harry Neville taught it her last summer,—and now she is always playing it, because it puts her in mind of the dear man;—when it is ended, don't you observe how she sighs from the bottom of her dear little heart?

Letty. Why, I thought they had quarrelled?

Mari. So they have—she won't see him, and I believe my aunt, Lady Waitfor't, has been the occasion of it;—poor Mr Neville!—I wish I could assist him, for indeed, Letty, I always pity any body that is crossed in love—it may be one's own case one day or other, you know.

Letty. True—and for the same reason, I suppose, you rejoice when it is successful.—I'm sure now the intended marriage of Lady Waitfor't and Lord Scratch gives you great pleasure.

Mari. What! the country gentleman who has lately come to his title? No, if you'll believe me, I don't like him at all,—he's a sour old fellow—is always abusing our sex, and thinks there is only one good woman under heaven:—now, I'm sure that's a mistake, for I know I'm a good woman, and I think, Letty, you are another.

Letty. Yes,—I hope so, though I confess I think your aunt is better than either of us.

Mari. More shame for you—she is a woman of sentiment, and hums you over with her flourishes about purity, and feelings.—Feelings!—'faith, she ought to be ashamed of herself—no other woman would talk in that manner.

Letty. You mistake her—she is a woman of virtue, and can't help feeling for the vices and misfortunes of others.

Mari. Then why can't she do as I have done, Letty? keep her feelings to herself—If I had given way to them half so much as she has—Oh Lord! I don't know what might have been the consequence.

Letty. For shame! You never hear Lady Waitfor't speak ill of any body.

Mari. No,—How should she, when she talks of nobody but herself?

Letty. Well, your opinion is of little weight; my Lord sees her merit, and is come to Bath on purpose to marry her—he thinks her a prodigy of goodness.

Mari. Then, pray let him have her—every fool knows so, to be sure he does, Letty, that a prodigy of goodness is a very rare thing;—but when he finds her out!—'faith, it will be a rare joke, when he finds her out.

Letty. Shameful, Miss Marianne! do speak a little intelligibly, and remember your aunt's favourite observation.

Mari. What is it?—I have forgot.

Letty. That good sentiments are always plain.

Mari. Yes,—so are good women,—bid her remember that, Letty.

Letty. Hush:—say no more—here she comes, and Mr Willoughby with her.

Mari. Ay—that man is always with her of late—but come, Letty, let's get out of their way—let's take a walk, and look at the beaux.

Letty. The beaux! ah, I see you long to become a woman of fashion....